April 7

New Lace Sleeves

The dress is nice. It fits you like a curse.
I mean, a corpse. A corset? Maybe that's it.
Something that might be worn by Mrs. Whatsit--
or is it Which? Who knows. The point is, of course
I like it. Even if the sleeves are long,
so long you seem to move at quarter-speed,
the lacework shimmering chalk-white with dread.
The collar, spiderlike, appears to cling,
to climb your neck. It veils your face in, quote
unquote, an air of careful accident.
I wouldn't be surprised if underneath
your lips were sponges bloated with blood. Your teeth
had little barbs and hooks. Your tongue was a bent
coat hanger twisting down a stranger's throat.